


violets and baby's-breaths (and other romantic things)

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [14]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 1800s AU, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Newt, hermann: omniscient gay, ish? idk, like so fricking oblivious, newt and hermann’s names don’t change just go with it, newt: disaster bi, probably ignores 1800s canon but eh, they're vaguely mentioned as being professors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 02:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: “What exactly am I looking for, Geiszler?” he drawls, “your work ethic, perhaps?”Newt sighs. “Hilarious, Gottlieb. No, look at my desk and tell me whether or not there’s a bouquet of violets and baby’s-breaths wrapped in a white ribbon.”





	violets and baby's-breaths (and other romantic things)

**Author's Note:**

> me at 4am: “Hmmm how can I make Newmann better? I got it, LESBIANS.”  
> so. yeah. newt and hermann are disguised as men so they can teach because the 19th century wasn't really big on sex-equality bUT

“Doctor Geiszler!” The call startles Newt from her thoughts; she’s sitting in front of her desk, papers in front of her, the light of the lamp casting the room into a sallow, yellow glow. “Geiszler!” The call comes again, and she raises her head, groaning.  
  
“What?” she snaps.  
  
The door creaks open. It’s Doctor Gottlieb. He leans heavily on his cane, face unreadable. She sends him a shallow, sharp smile, and waits for him to enter. After a few seconds, he starts and scuttles in, clears his throat. “Ah, Doctor Geiszler, I was wondering if...” he glances around nervously, closes the door. Newt’s curiosity grows. “My good fellow,” he continues, “I was wondering if you would perhaps be amenable to a dinner?”  
  
He fiddled with the elegant head of his cane, looks unsuitably uncomfortable—nervous?—, and Newt takes a second to think it over. In any other case, she’d assume that he’s trying to court her, but, for all he knows, Newt is a man as well, and, well, that simply isn’t done. A dinner between colleagues, then.  
  
Realising that he’s expecting an answer, she drags a hand through her short hair and replies, “Alright—well, I suppose that I could go out for a bite.” She shoots him a grin. He nods shortly, holds out an arm.  
  
“Er,” she says, and he drops the arm to his side, floundering.  
  
“Yes, yes, let us—let us go,” he rushes out.  
  
Things only get odder from there. A week later, Newt unlocks her office and finds an understated bouquet of violets on her desk. She stares at them, steps outside. “Gottlieb!” she calls, and the physicist’s head pokes out from his own office down the hall.  
  
“What is it now, Geiszler?” he sighs, adjusting his glasses.  
  
“Come here, please,” Newt requests. With a put-upon sight, Gottlieb stumps over. “Look in my office and tell me what you see,” Newt commands. Gottlieb raises a brow at her.  
  
“What exactly am I looking for, Geiszler?” he drawls, “your work ethic, perhaps?”  
  
Newt sighs. “Hilarious, Gottlieb. No, look at my desk and tell me whether or not there’s a bouquet of violets and baby’s-breaths wrapped in a white ribbon.”  
  
Gottlieb peeks in over her shoulder. For a second, something passes over his face, before he says, “A secret admirer, I see—well, then, good chap, who’s the lucky lady?” Newt sighs, pinched the bridge of her nose. The cloth binding her chest flat tightens, and she hides a wince.  
  
“No, Gottlieb,” she says, aggravation seeping into her tone. “I do not have a an admirer, secret or otherwise; I was simply making sure I wasn’t hallucinating.” Her medications have a tendency to do that—or, rather, the absence of them does that. Gott im Himmel, it’s the nineteenth century, they should have some goddamn decent meds.  
  
But. But!  
  
Irregardless. Or. No. “Regardless?” she mutters, and Gottlieb stares at her, shakes his head. “Thanks for the dinner!” Newt calls after him, and nearly kills herself laughing when Gottlieb trips on the carpeting and nearly falls before catching himself at the last moment.  
  
So, dinner. Dinner’s a...thing. She thinks? Possibly. Or. Possibly not? It’s confusing, since Gottlieb’s sending very, very mixed signals.  
  
Well, that is, until she’s slamming Newt up against the wall of her office, eyes dark with intent. Which, at this point, Newt doesn’t think the signals could be interpreted as anything other than lust, so. So.  
  
Wait. Rewind.  
  
So. So. It starts with dinner. Or, rather, a late-night snack at a seedy hole-in-the wall a few blocks from the University. Newt orders spicy curry and coconut ice-cream and eats with her fingers to spite Gottlieb.  
  
Gottlieb eyes her with something akin to morbid curiosity as he cuts his own meal into small pieces and spears them aggressively. “That’s disgusting, Geiszler,” he announces, “were you taught no manners?”  
  
“Nope!” Newt says, cheerily, chewing loudly, and watches with unhindered glee as Gottlieb winces and glances away. His face screams discomfort and he looks out of place in the haze of smoke drifting in the air, dressed sharply amongst the other patrons who, besides being significantly more tipsy and/or stoned, are wearing significantly less.  
  
Not that Newt blames them, honestly. It’s hot as hell in here.  
  
Gottlieb clears his throat. “We should...we should head back,” he says, fingers tapping the head of his cane. “Paperwork, you have—paperwork you need to get. For—classes. I have paperwork,” he babbles.  
  
Huh. Newt tips her head to the side, squints at him. There’s a distinct flush of pink on the physicist’s cheeks—heat, perhaps? Or...something else? Interesting. She files it away for analysis. “Yes,” she says out loud instead, “yes, we should.”  
  
So that’s how they get back to the University. Gottlieb waits for her to collect her papers, and then says, “I’ve got a 1789 whiskey if you’d like a drink.” Newt stares.  
  
“Are you...are you offering me some of your twenty year old alcohol?” she questions, disbelieving. Because Gottlieb is—infamous for his fierce guarding of his drinks. Newt’s...surprised, to say the least.  
  
“Sure,” she says, instead. “Yeah, I could do with a drink.”  
  
And thus, they drink. Some, or. More than some? A lot. Multiple bottles, even. She stares at the ceiling, watches as it spins. By her side, Gottlieb shifts, his ridiculous overcoat tickling her neck.  
  
“Hnn,” he groans. “My head’s g’n’be poundin’ t’morrow.” Newt grunts in agreement. “I spent...s’much on y’,” Gottlieb slurs, and that. That snaps Newt...back. Or. Up. Awake? More lucid.  
  
“What,” she says flatly.  
  
“Mhm,” Gottlieb murmurs, “‘s not cheap t’buy violets ‘n December.”  
  
Oh. Oh. “Gottlieb,” she says, haltingly, peering at the other, “have you...have you been courting me?”  
  
Gottlieb lets out a huff, then, “Wait, you...you didn’t know?” There’s surprise in his voice, and he rolls over. “Oh. Oh, hell,” he groans. “Then I assume you aren’t aware of...of my secret, either?”  
  
Newt blinks, head fuzzy. “Er...no?”  
  
“Ah,” Gottlieb says. “Well. Then.” He clambers to his feet, closes and locks the office door. Newt’s much more lucid, now, and lets out a squeak of surprise when Gottlieb begins to strip off his clothing.  
  
“Gottlieb, what are you—!” Gottlieb pulls off his shirt, and. “What,” Newt says flatly, not processing the data her eyes are receiving. Because there, on Gottlieb’s chest, are strips of tightly-bound cloth. Just like Newt’s.  
  
“What,” Newt says, again, like a broken record.  
  
Gottlieb glances at her before turning away sharply. “I—I simply assumed,” she says, pauses. “I...I assumed that, since I am aware of...you, you must have also been aware of me.”  
  
“Er,” Newt says. “Um. No.”  
  
“Ah,” Gottlieb says, voice dull. “Well, in that case, I apologise for...” she gestures broadly. “This.”  
  
“Oh!” Newt exclaims, pulls herself to her feet. “Oh, no! Uh, no, I’m not—“ she flails for a second, regains her balance, “no, no, I, uh. I’m. Interested. Too. If you are, that is,” she tacks on, flushing.  
  
Gottlieb finally meets her gaze, and there’s...something there. “...I’m interested,” she says, cautiously.  
  
Newt clears her throat. “Yeah. No, no, I’m. Very interested,” she stumbles on the vowels. Quicker than should be possible, Gottlieb crosses the office, stops a scant centimetre away from Newt. Newt’s frozen in place, breath shallow, and she swallows, watches as Gottlieb tracks the motion.  
  
Her eyes flick to Gottlieb’s lips, and then Gottlieb’s backing her against the wall, hand at the base of her neck, her mouth hovering over Newt’s own, pupils blown wide. Newt’s breath hitches, and she rasps, “...so, y—you and me and a darkened room—“  
  
Gottlieb slams her lips against Newt’s, grips her hair. Newt whimpers, legs weak from a mixture of alcohol and the uniquely intoxicating powers of Gottlieb’s kiss. She breaks away and Newt tries to chase after her, only to be stopped as Gottlieb drops her cane and presses her hand against Newt’s sternum to stop her.  
  
“You should...you should have someone shut you up more often,” she advises. Her voice isn’t even breathless, which is. Unfair. Since Newt’s pressed against a wall and partially dazed. She voices the thought, and Gottlieb’s lips twitch into a smug grin.  
  
“You,” Newt hisses, “you absolute fucker. You bastard. You smug clotpole. You—“ Gottlieb cuts her off again, not that Newt’s complaining. At all.  
  
(She doesn’t complain when Newt calls her _Hermann_ and _darling_ , either, so. So, win-win.)


End file.
